Title: Vitrification
Warning: Writing an AU based off of a "What If" idea, so events and characterization are going to change because of that. Threats? Possibly gore?
Rating: PG-13
Continuity: IDW MTMTE
Characters: Ratchet, Ambulon, First Aid, Pharma.
Disclaimer: The theatre doesn't own the script or actors.
Motivation (Prompt): A commission from Shokveyv, who asked a very simple question - "What if Ratchet had been sent to Delphi instead of Pharma?"
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Part One
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Messatine was cold, bleak, and optic-searing white. Frigid wind whistled through the airlock as soon as the seal cracked, and the temperature inside the shuttle plummeted. Beams of light came through next, outlining the door in blinding white that made Ratchet throw a hand up to shield his optics. Blinking repeatedly narrowed his lenses to deal with the overwhelming assault, but it didn't help much. Reflection off the protective glass of his optics made it difficult to see. He squinted against the glare of ice and snow even as he stepped out onto the loading ramp.
It was even more barren than the planet's bio had led him to believe. He spent a moment scanning the horizon looking for life, a single sign of anything living out here on the surface. Nothing but bare rock thrust up through the hard-packed snow met his optics. They were scoured clean by the wind. From the direction of the wind, he'd bet the side he couldn't see was glazed in ice, falling snow blown sideways and frozen hard. That side of his body was already past chilled and into cold. His armor would soon show the same frost.
The snowscape had a sort of desolate beauty to it, but what killed on Messatine couldn't be seen. The wind was dangerous. Ratchet was losing heat fast, and the shuttle airlock had opened less than a minute ago.
The transfer guidelines hadn't warned about this level of extreme cold. According to it, the people under the icy crust of the surface were the real killers. The miners from both factions worked underground in opposite hemispheres of the planet. They stayed unseen in the mines until they boiled out for raid, and the fighting tended to take place anywhere but the surface. The Autobots pinned the Decepticons down in the tunnels where flight wouldn't be an advantage, stealing carts of mined nucleon; the Decepticons hit Autobot cargo ships in the air as they left the planet, taking the nucleon there. Then both factions disappeared back into their warrens, leaving death and destruction behind.
For people like Ratchet to clean up. His optics finally focused through the painful light, and he spotted a blurry outline of red and yellow standing at the foot of the ramp. Primary colors, sturdy build, obviously here to meet someone: this had to be another medic. The miners, his scanty briefing packet told him, rarely left their warm tunnels for the frozen surface.
"Ratchet?"
"That's me," he said, jerking a nod. The center of his palms twinged as the cold started to stiffen the joints, and he decided not to offer his hand in greeting.
"I'm Ambulon. Nice to meet you." Ambulon promptly leaned to the side, craning his neck to see around the new transfer. "Not to be rude, but if those supply crates aren't meant for us, you may be privy to some unflattering behavior from the clinic's ward manager."
Ratchet chose to be amused by that. There was a peculiar hunger hiding behind Ambulon's officiousness. He'd seen it before in undersupplied drop areas. People without supplies who saw supplies immediately wanted those supplies. "Most of them are being dropped here," he said, and Ambulon straightened, shoulders easing down as irritated concern was replaced by relief. Watching the guy felt a little like looking into a mirror. Ratchet gave him a companionable smile. "Who's the ward manager?"
"Me," Ambulon said, unapologetically continuing without pause for introductions. "I brought a sled. Will any of the crew help unload, or are they waiting for you to get out so they can get the frag out of this - " The sentence cut off, and yellow optics suddenly turned toward the sled. "Off the planet, I mean."
It wasn't difficult to fill in what he'd been about to say. Nobody of any importance was sent out to this obscure locale, and most people actively avoided being assigned here. The miners shipped out nucleon by the shipload, but the second biggest export of Messatine was corpses.
"I think it's just you and I," Ratchet said after a ping to the shuttle cockpit spat back nothing but static. He stifled the immediate urge to storm up there and say something about lazy, work-shirking, good-for-nothing wastes of space. Throwing his weight around wouldn't get him as much as it used to. Guilt might compel the crew to help, but realistically, what could he do if they didn't? It would do him good to get used to his new rank and the loss of respect it earned him. Frowning, Ratchet glanced back into the hold. "We can manage on our own. There isn't much."
"There never is. Well, we'd better get on it. Radar didn't show any storms heading in, but spring's unpredictable. We could be knee-deep in fresh snow if we don't hurry." Ambulon started up the ramp after hauling the sled to the foot. "I'll take the heavier crates."
Stung, Ratchet didn't clear the door. "I'm not that old!"
Ambulon gave him a funny look. "Old?"
Ah. Right. That would be his insecurities acting up. "Sorry. Bit sensitive." About his age, he didn't say, but he didn't have to after snapping like that.
The apology was a bitter mouthful to say, sticking on his tongue like the admittance to himself that he'd be tetchy about such remarks if he didn't watch it. Biting people's heads off for coddling him was one thing, but from Ambulon's reaction, the offer had been efficiency instead of niceness. Ratchet turned away, glad for the excuse of unloading the supplies. He didn't regret what he'd done to get here, but it wasn't easy adjusting to the consequences. Necessity and unvarnished self-reflection had brought about his assignment to the Delphi Medical Center. Neither was particularly palatable.
Ambulon stood there looking at him strangely a moment more, but he seemed the professional type. As soon as Ratchet started dragging crates, he shook off whatever he was thinking and slapped at the wall beside the airlock with the familiarity of somebody who'd unloaded supply shuttles before. The inventory tablet clattered when he hit it, and he clicked it free of the magnetic strip. "Ha, now let's see what they've sent us. Antifreeze, good…"
The muttering kept up as Ambulon checked off the crates. He stopped Ratchet at the airlock to point toward two crates at the back. "I'll start with those, they're heaviest. We can fit everything on the sled in one load if we put the heaviest ones on the bottom and stack on top of them. You can bring that one down," he gestured at the crate Ratchet held, "but stack it on the ramp for now. Don't set anything on the snow, it'll crack the crust and go through." With that, he slapped the inventory onto his hip and strode toward the heavy crates.
Ratchet thought he'd transform to haul them out, so he hurried to clear the door, going down to set the crate where indicated. He didn't enjoy being ordered around, but Ambulon was the ward manager. Organization was part of the job description. Plus, someone with hands-on experience doing this overrode Ratchet's theoretical authority, if the old medic put aside his ego. As long as Ambulon didn't try to take charge in the middle of surgery, Ratchet would follow his orders out here.
Footsteps warned him. He looked up and blinked, surprised.
Ambulon was carrying the crate. "Spot me?" he grunted. "Can't really see the sled around this thing."
Being asked for help felt much better than being ordered. It was a courtesy Ratchet appreciated. "You're clear to the foot of the ramp, step left, now down onto the snow - careful!" Ambulon hadn't been exaggerating about the crust breaking. The first step off the ramp put the ward manager up to his knee, but he merely grimaced. "Okay, turn to your right," Ratchet said, hustling over to push on the side threatening to go off the edge of the sled. "Here's good. Down."
Together, they guided the crate down onto the sled, which sagged slightly. The snow-crust creaked but held. They straightened, eying it. Ratchet flexed his hands, feeling the cold sink in. The ache of his joints was becoming a nagging pain. Pretty soon he wouldn't be able to tell if the numbness came from age-corroded sensors or frozen wires.
Ambulon turned to hike back up the ramp. "I'll get the next one."
Ratchet watched him thoughtfully, taking in more details now that he was thinking instead of reacting. Reinforced struts under utilitarian armor, no visible altmode, an odd configuration at key transformation seams…no wonder Ambulon had told him he'd take the heavy crates. The mech had to have a weight rating that could benchpress Ratchet's like it was nothing. Either he was part of Triple-M or he had a history buried in Classified files somewhere.
Shaking his head, Ratchet went back for another crate. The personnel files for the clinic hadn't been part of his briefing packet. Nothing of real interest to do with the clinic had been in it, other than the fact that it needed a competent leader to take the open slot. No mention was made of where the last administrator had gone, or what kind of staff worked there. It had all been circumstantial information about the planet, an overview of the mines, and detailed information about the current roster of the Decepticon Justice Division. Ratchet now knew everything Autobot Intelligence had on Tarn, or so it felt, and while that was relevant information considering the clinic's location, he'd rather have background files on the people he'd be working with and repairing.
The briefing packet had been set up oddly. The overall feel of it seemed like a dare to take the position. The wording had been a subtle challenge of pride and talent. Given that Prowl had originally aimed it at Pharma, Ratchet had his suspicions about that. The whole thing smelled like manipulation.
He didn't see what it could possibly be setting up, however, aside from excellent medical care out in the aft end of nowhere. He stood by his decision. It didn't matter that he'd come here in Pharma's place, at least in terms of filling the job requirements. He was still a good medic. Just not as good as he'd been.
Ratchet helped stack the boxes as Ambulon directed, mindful of his hands, and didn't protest as the stronger mech took the sled handles. The moment they cleared the airlock for the last time, the ramp slid back up and the engines whined online. The pilots barely waited for the two of them to trudge to minimum safe distance before living off, and they shielded their faces against the blast of hot air. It felt good for a split second, but the intense cold hurt as soon as the warmth passed.
Ratchet tried to hide the wave of shivers, but Ambulon caught it. "Come on. You're not insulated right for this climate. You need to get inside before you freeze up."
"I complied with transfer guidelines," Ratchet said, neutral, but the mech hauling the sled ahead of him dismissed that with a puff of air visible in the cold for only a second.
Yellow optics glanced back. "Those guidelines prepare new transfers for summer weather. Autobot Command never updates with our recommendations for winter prep, maybe so it won't scare people off. One extra coat of insulation on your wires just doesn't cut it out here." Ambulon looked at the grey clouds slowly advancing from the horizon. "You're lucky you arrived before that hit. Anything less than coating the underside of your armor in insulation won't keep you operational in a storm, and we have to put on external gear for actual winter weather."
Ratchet followed in the wide track of the sled as he pondered that. No wonder he was losing heat so fast. Well, that was one thing he could definitely do for the clinic. One of the benefits of knowing someone high up, even if he himself wasn't part of the upper ranks anymore, was the ability to call in favors. The transfer guidelines were meant for safety, and he'd be slagged if they remained out of date while he was here.
His hands hurt. After hesitating for a moment, he abandoned his pride and tucked them up under his arms. They were chill spots against his already cold armor. He couldn't feel a couple of his fingers, and it was entirely likely that wasn't from the cold.
Delphi Medical Center squatted in the snow up ahead, the only structure in sight. Ambulon dragged the sled toward it at a quick pace, aiming to get inside before the storm hit. Ratchet looked at it as they drew closer. It didn't look like much. That was fine by him. It was as decent a place to retire as any while still doing the Autobots some good.
He ducked his head against the wind and followed the sled.
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